THE' LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  MOSAIC  FROM  ITALY, 


P 


oems. 


BY 


MALCOLM   MACEUEN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

MASON     &     CO. 

No.  907  CHESTNUT  STREET. 
18G7. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S67,  by 
MALCOLM    MACEUEN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CAXTON  PRESS  OF 
SHERMAN  &  CO.,  PHILADELPHIA. 


CONTENTS. 


INVOCATION 5 

A  MOSAIC  FROM  ITALY 9 

REMINISCENCE 18 

A  BIRTHDAY  WAIF .  22 

IN  MEMORIAM 25 

CHRISTMAS  POEMS: 


CHRISTMAS  EVE     

29 

i:                     ii 

.    31 

"                            

33 

THE  CHRISTMAS  DRUM      

.     34 

THE  FLOWER  OF  CHILLON       

35 

VALENTINE  . 

39 

SONNETS  : 

To  E.  M.  F 43 

To  M.  L.  M.  P 44 

THE  PAST  AND  PRESENT  46 


759409 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

EPIGRAM 48 

MY  PRISON  PY  MOONLIGHT 47 

AN  ^EOLIAN  SERENADE       .        .        .        .  .50 

THE  RETARDED  VERSES 52 

COMMENCEMENT    .        .        . 54 

TRANSLATIONS : 

SPANISH  EPIGRAM 59 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  RHINE 61 

LORELEI 63 

ITALY 65 

THE  POWER  OF  SONG 67 


THESE    POEMS 

ARE     DEDICATED     TO     THOSE     WHOSE 
AFFECTION 

SUGGESTED    AND    ENCOURAGED 
THEM. 


INVOCATION. 


A  TRAIL  of  robes !    A  flash  of  plumes ! 
A  fragrance  shed  from  rich  perfumes ! 

The  Goddess  sweeps  along! 
On  her  brow  a  star  of  fire; 
In  her  hand  a  golden  lyre : 
The  vaulting  cadence  flashes  higher, 

And  quivers  into  song ! 

Welcome,  Goddess !     Come  and  sing ! 
Make  the  heavenly  changes  ring ! 

I  have  need  to-night 
Rest  a  while  in  this  poor  room  : 
I  would  fain  forget  my  doom. 
Oh,  dissipate  the  deadening  gloom 

With  thy  celestial  light ! 


INVOCATION. 

Round  thy  head  is  glory  rolled; 
The  sandals  on  thy  feet  are  gold: 

Oh,  thou  art  fair  to  see ! 
Inmate  of  a  holier  sphere, 
I  marvel  much  to  find'thee  here, 
Translating  thus  to  mortal  ear 

Immortal  harmony! 


A  MOSAIC   FROM   ITALY. 


DOWN  through  the  snowy  passes  of  the  Alps, 
Two  lovers  came  upon  the  plains  of  Lombardy 
Leaving  behind  monastic  St.  Bernard, 
High  up  the  pass  beside  the  gloomy  lake : 
— Stern  outpost  of  heroic  charity 
Alone  among  the  charging  avalanches. — 
Far  fairer  scenes  awaited  their  approach 
Where  genial  Italy  unlocked  her  arms, 
And  spread  her  treasures  to  their  dazzled  sight. 
A  wondrous  land !      Where  glory  often  clings 
Brighter  around  some  capitalless  shaft, 
Than  flashes  in  crown  diamonds.      On  they  rode ; 
It  seemed  to  them  the  very  beggar  boy 
With  tawny  skin  and  laughing  eye,  that  ran 


10  A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY. 

Half  clad  beside  the  carriage,  as  they  passed, 

And  hailed  la  signorina,  while  she  dropped 

A  few  baiocche  in  his  outstretched  palm, 

Appeared  less  servile  in  his  mendicancy, 

Than  beggars  they  had  seen  in  other  lands. 

That  contadina  with  her  nursing  child, 

Sitting  beside  the  fountain,  'neath  the  vines, 

Might  have  been  sketched  by  Raphael ;  for  the  past 

Seemed  to  have  sprung  up  round  them  in  a  moment. 

The  recollection  of  such  golden  days 

Was  sweetly  treasured  in  their  hearts ;    but  when, 

After  long  years  had  passed,  one  of  the  twain 

Returned — alas  !    alone — to  see  these  scenes, 

His  manhood  could  not  curb  the  starting  tear 

Forced  ever  by  remembrance,  so  he  turned 

His  mournful  steps  to  visit  other  lands 

Which  she  had  not  made  sacred  by  her  presence. 

They  saw  the  great  cathedral  at  Milan, 

— Petrified  poetry,  rising  into  air, 

For  even  the  unlettered  to  peruse : — 

And  Pisa's  tower  inclined  its  arched  rings 

As  if  to  nod  approval  of  their  loves. 

Lorenzo's  Florence  welcomed  their  approach, 


A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY.  11 

When  the  moon  rested  on  Fiesole, 
With  the  eternal  galleries  where  Art 
Wrestles  with  Nature  and  half  conquers  her. 
They  thought  they  could  have  dwelt  forever  there 
If  they  but  dwelt  together.      By  the  Arno, 
In  the  Cascini,  and  through  princely  halls 
Stored  with  majestic  relics  of  the  past, 
They  wandered ;   hand  in  hand  at  night, 
But  always  heart  to  heart.      Then  on  to  Rome 
Southward  they  sped.      Ere  long  the  lofty  dome, 
— "To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell," — 
Rose  on  their  sight,  and  seemed  to  bar  the  way 
With  vast  magnificence.      Th'  Eternal  City 
Surrounded  them  again  with  splendid  awe, 
More  splendid  'mid  her  ruins.     They  heard  enchanted 
That  Roman  accent  of  the  Tuscan  tongue, 
Of  which  the  poets  boast.      Then  were  they  glad 
They  did  not  stay  at  Florence.      At  the  portal 
Of  great  St.  Peter's  church  they  paused  awhile, 
Between  the  circling  colonnades  there,  by  the  foun 
tains, 

And  the  tall  obelisk,  ashamed  to  enter ; 
The  structure  seemed  so  vast,  and  they  so  small. 


12  A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY. 

At  last  they  crept  like  bees  into  a  hive, 

And  held  their  breath  and  speech;  they  could  but  see, 

And  hardly  see  enough.      The  heaving  forms 

That  Michael  Angelo  has  left  behind, 

Were  there  to  startle  them  with  all  their  grandeur, 

And  Raphael's  living  pictures  bade  them  worship  : 

On  every  side  dead  centuries,  to  this, 

Bequeathed  their  claims  to  immortality. 

It  was  beyond  description.      In  the  Vatican, 

Bewildered  through  the  galleries  they  went, 

And  saw  the  wounded  Dacian  die  for  them 

As  he  has  died  for  millions.      Endless  death ! 

Then  from  a  common  page,  with  mutual  eyes, 

They  read,  intoning  deftly  worded  lines, 

About  that  other  gladiator  niched 

By  Byron  in  the  Vatican  of  Fame. 

Laocoon  reared  for  them  his  stfuggling  form 

Between  the  wreathing  serpents ;   his  two  sons 

Strangled  beside  him.      Thus  are  apt  to  slay 

Hereditary  evils  sire  and  child  alike. 

They  stood  enraptured  by  Medici's  Venus 

— Embodiment  of  every  line  of  grace. — 

0  peerless  Aphrodite !      In  all  lands 


A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY.  13 

Thy  charms  are  known,  and  still  thy  daughters  live; 

Mortals  are  made  to  feel  their  power  too, 

And  bow  the  knee  before  resistless  beauty. 

But  who  can  tell  of  Rome?     Where  every  Art, 

After  maturing  for  a  thousand  years, 

Bursts  full  upon  the  world  with  luscious  ripeness. 

Southward  the  lovers  travelled.      Soon  they  saw 

A  lovely  bay — felucca-speckled  azure — 

With  Naples  basking  on  the  curved  shore 

That  bends  to  old  Vesuvius  in  full  view. 

The  mountain  sloped  up  to  a  point,  where  puffed 

A  jet  of  smoke,  shaped  like  a  water-spout, 

That  broad'ning  rose  up  to  a  turquoise  sky 

And  disappeared  at  last  in  the  still  air. 

The  pleasant  sea  extended  leagues  around 

To  mirror-gleaming  islands.      On  the  hills, 

Green  vines  came  down  to  mingle  with  white  houses, 

While  every  thing  breathed  peaceful  loveliness. 

With  the  approach  of  evening  all  this  changed. 

The  dying  sun  fell  like  a  gladiator 

Upon  his  golden  shield,  all  gules,  and  left 

Earth,  sky,  and  water,  purple  with  his  gore. 

Vede  Napoli  e  poi  mori,  seemed 

2 


14  A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY. 

Emblazed  and  flashing  everywhere,  until 

The  eye  grew  tired  of  admiration.     All  that  night 

They  dreamed  of  burning  mountains  and  bright  seas; 

And  lingered  long  in  Naples.      Then  they  turned 

Northward  again,  to  visit  peerless  Venice. 

They  found  the  sea-queen,  sitting  in  her  glory 

Among  the  islands,  while  a  crescent  moon 

Dipped  on  her  brow  as  though  she  were  Diana 

Resting  beside  the  ocean.      Here  they  tarried 

Until  the  crescent  swelled  to  a  full  orb, 

That  flooded  the  piazza  and  canals 

With  trembling  light.      Sometimes  they  shot  along, 

Gutting  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  bridges 

With  their  swift  gondola;    and  once  they  took 

A  larger  bark,  to  greet  the  classic  islands 

Far  down  the  gulf.      Returning  from  this  trip, 

They  landed  at  a  village  of  the  coast, 

And  climbed  the  rocks  to  see  a  little  chapel 

Perched  on  the  heights  above.      A  simple  building 

It  proved  to  be;    devoid  of  ornament, 

Save  votive  offerings  grouped  round  the  altar ; 

And  a  large  crucifix  rudely  carved  in  wood ; 

Such  as  are  often  seen  in  Italy 


A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY.  15 

Erected  by  the  roadside.      They  observed 
That  in  the  pale  Christ's  side  a  crimson  stain 
Appeared,  and  this  was  covered  by  a  glass, 
So  as  to  guard  it  from  all  injury. 
Wondering  what  this  could  mean,  they  looked  around 
For  some  one  to  explain  it.      A  peasant  woman, 
Just  risen  from  her  knees  beside  the  altar, 
Was  passing  out :  she  stopped  surprised  when  ques 
tioned. 

"You  must  be  strangers  here  indeed,"  she  said, 
"Not  to  have  heard  about  the  miracle 
That    makes    our    chapel    known    through    all    the 

country ; 

And  many  pilgrims  come  from  other  lands 
To  worship  at  this  shrine.      That  cross  you  see 
Stood  once  uncovered  by  the  road ;  the  little  church 
Has  been  built  over  it.      This  is  the  story : — 
Hundreds  of  years  ago,  when  this  whole  region 
Was  full  of  robbers,  and  bloodthirsty  pirates 
That  came  up  from  the  sea,  a  brace  of  cut-throats 
Sat  down  one  afternoon  beneath  the  cross 
To  play  at  dice,  and  pass  the  time  away. 
One  of  the  villains  lost  each  time  he  threw, 


16  A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY. 

Until  at  last  he  rose  in  wrath,  and  cursed 

The  Christ  upon  the  cross.      He  swore  that  if 

He  lost  another  round,  he'd  take  a  stone 

And  hurl  it  at  the  crucifix.      They  sat, 

And  played  again,  and  still  again  he  lost. 

Then,  with  a  great  oath,  springing  up,  he  picked 

A  stone  from  off  the  road,  and  struck  the  Christ 

Just  in  the  side  there,  where  you  see  that  stain. 

But  do  not  think  the  crime  was  unavenged. 

A  stream  of  blood  poured  from  the  wounded  side 

— As  when  the  Roman  soldier  fixed  his  spear — 

And  reddened  all  the  ground.     The  opening  earth 

Swallowed  up  quick  the  sacrilegious  pair, 

With  shrieks  and  flame  of  fire.     You  must  believe 

This  miracle,  for  there  you  see  the  blood, 

And  here  we  stand  upon  the  very  spot 

Where  this  was  done.      So  has  our  chapel  honor, 

And  many  wondrous  cures  are  still  performed 

On  those  who  seek  this  shrine."     With  these  words 

She  went  her  way,  and  left  them  pondering 

On  the  strange  legend,  till  advancing  night 

Stole  on  them  unawares.      The  lady  seemed 

Silent  and  sad ;    her  husband  asked  the  cause, 


A    MOSAIC    FROM    ITALY.  17 

Looking  his  question  in  her  eyes.      "Alas!" 
She  said,  "how  many  of  us  now, 
With  more  advantages  than  these  poor  men, 
Do  daily  stone  Christ  in  our  hearts ;    and  yet 
We  still  live  on,  unpunished  for  our  sin !" 
He  made  no  answer,  but  in  silence  took 
Her  little  hand  in  his;    and  slowly  thus 
They  wandered  shoreward,  lighted  by  the  stars. 


REMINISCENCE. 


IT  is  a  pleasant  fancy,  that  invests 
Inanimate  things  with  life,  attributing 
The  power  to  feel  such  sentiments  as  we 
Ourselves  have  felt  while  gazing  upon  them : 
For  thus  they  seem  to  share  our  joy  and  pain. 
Who  ever  wandered  thro'  an  antique  house, 
Time-worn  and  shattered,  like  a  broken  heart, 
Where  only  echoes  live  of  loves  that  were, 
But  felt  the  strange,  mysterious  beckoning 
Of  shadowy  hands  stretched  from  a  shadowy  past, 
That  called  him  from  the  active,  busy  Now, 
Into  the  bosom  of  some  bygone  Then  ? 
Why  does  it  wound  our  sensibilities 
To  see  old  mansions  rudely  tumbled  down, 

18 


REMINISCENCE.  19 

And  grand  old  chambers,  that  have  long  been  silent, 

Thrown  open  to  the  uproar  of  the  street, 

And  clownish  criticism  of  the  mob ; 

But  that  we  deem  them  proudly  reticent, 

Tapestried  with  the  thoughts  of  other  days, 

And  umbraged  at  these  rough  indignities  ? 

Why  do  we  hang  upon  a  faded  flower, 

And  treasure  it,  but  that  there  seems  to  cling 

Still  to  its  withered  petals  power  to  bring 

Some  perfume  from  a  still  more  faded  past? 

Lost  loves  and  buried  friendships !     Ye  are  gone. 

But  still  I  fancy,  in  the  vacant  cells 

Ye  left  within  my  heart,  I  hear  again 

Some  echo  of  your,  former  minstrelsy ! 

So  let  me  hold  you  sacred  for  the  joys 

With  which  ye  once  have  gilded  parted  hours. 

(For  love,  though  lost,  is  like  a  precious  jewel : 

We  light  a  candle,  and  sweep  diligently 

To  try  if  we  can  find  it ;   for  we  know 

That  the  lost  jewel  still  must  glitter  somewhere. 

And  friendship  may  be  buried  quick,  and  stir 

Uneasily  within  its  sepulchre, 

Though  it  may  fail  to  burst  the  marble  tomb.) 


20  REMINISCENCE. 

Still  are  there  certain  seasons  consecrate 
To  hallowed  mem'ries,  such  as  make  a  calm 
Amid  the  storm  and  bustle  of  our  lives ; 
Like  silent  chapels  in  a  busy  street, 
Forgotten  in  the  turmoil  of  the  day, 
But  sought  with  rev 'rent,  contemplative  steps 
When  vesper  hymns  arise  to  meet  the  stars. 

Thus  I  sit  here  alone.      The  midnight  bell 
Bids  yesterday  good-by,  and  summons  up 
— As  in  past  years  at  such  memorial  time — 
A  phantom-like  procession  of  pale  thoughts, 
On  which  I  gaze  and  ponder,  till  they  grow 
So  life-like  I  could  almost  rise  and  grasp  them. 
I  see  again  the  lustre  of  an  eye 
That  once  I  thought  were  always  bright  for  me ; 
And  hear  again  the  music  of  a  voice 
That  once  I  thought  for  me  were  never  silent ; 
And  feel  again  the  pressure  of  a  hand 
That  once  I  thought  would  always  welcome  me. 
So  the  still  hours  glide  on  the  stream  of  night. 
How  fast  or  slow  I  reck  not,  for  I  sit, 
Bewildered  by  these  visions  of  the  heart, 


REMINISCENCE.  21 

Holding  old  relics  in  my  drooping  hands, 
Until  the  banners  of  ghost-scaring  morn 
Advance  their  oriental  gold  and  purple. 
Then  slowly, — slowly, — as  my  eyelids  fall, 
The  pinion-spreading  phantoms  soar  away, 
Shaking  from  out  their  wings  some  plumes  of  song, 
That  flutter  down  and  lull  to  dreamy  sleep. 

Again  !    again !     We  clasp  our  hands  together, 

0  days  of  long  ago ! 
And  hail  the  gleaming  of  a  sunset  river 

Where  happy  waters  flow  ! 

The  day-god  stoop=  among  the  murmuring  rushes, 

With  glory  multifold  ; 
Kissing  the  earth,  like  Danae,  all  blushes, 

Beneath  a  shower  of  gold  ! 

Again !   again !     How  could  ye  leave  me  ever  ? 

To  be  remembered  so ! 
We  drained  no  Lethean  goblet  from  that  river, 

0  days  of  long  ago ! 


A  BIRTHDAY   WAIF. 


TT1HE  well-poised  axle  of  the  car  of  Time 
-*-    Rolls  down  the  length'ning  avenue  of  years, 
Scythe-armed  and  silent.      Juggernaut  sublime ! 
Crushing  an  empire  now  ;  now  drying  woman's  tears. 
Human  Art  with  Nature  strives 
To  chronicle  our  changing  lives:  — 
Reveillee  from  fortress  wall, — 
Sunset  gun  and  bugle  call, — 
Pond'rous  stroke  in  minster  spire, — 
Tinkle  o'er  the  parlor  fire, — 
Faithful  shadow  creeping  round 
The  gnomon  in  yon  pleasure-ground, — 
Attest  how  man  exerts  his  skill 

To  track  the  foe  he  cannot  kill. 
22 


A    BIRTHDAY   WAIF.  23 

Nature  on  a  mightier  scale 

Reiterates  her  oft-told  tale : — 

Rising  blast  and  falling  leaf, — 

Empty  field  and  garnered  sheaf, — 

Flight  of  birds  to  balmier  homes, — 

Who  runs  could  read  that  Autumn  comes. 

When  the  Winter  King  appears, 

With  all  his  glittering  spears, 
And  a  thousand  snowy  banners  in  his  train, 

He  finds  the  giant  oaks, 

Having  doffed  their  leafy  cloaks, 
Stand  prepared  to  dispute  his  right  to  reign. 

They  toss  their  arms  on  high, 

Athwart  the  murky  sky, 
And  howl  grim  defiance  from  afar ; 

Then  he  charges  o'er  the  plain. 

And  we  seem  to  see  again 
The  Titans  and  the  Gods  waging  war. 

But  I  do  not  need  the  sight 
Of  this  elemental  fight 


24  A   BIRTHDAY   WAIF. 

To  remind  me  that  Winter  comes  at  last ; 

For  pleasant  thoughts  arise, 

Unsubdued  by  leaden  skies, 
Encouraged  by  the  moaning  of  the  blast. 

Be  my  carrier-pigeon,  gale ! 

Fly  over  hill  and  dale, 
Till  you  come  to  stately  Alverthorpe's  fair  seat ; 

Take  these  leaves  upon  your  wings, 

Among  other  worthless  things, 
And  drop  them  at  my  cousin's  little  feet ! 

Haste,  haste  !      You  must  not  stay  ! 

Bear  my  love  to  her  to-day, 
And  whisper  gentle  greetings  in  her  ear; 

May  old  Tempus,  in  his  flight, 

Prove  powerless  to  blight 
The  happiness  in  store  for  many  a  year! 


Killed  in  battle,  March,  1865. 


r  MHY  golden  leaflet  withers  and  dies 
-*-    While  yet  it  is  sparkling  with  dew  ; 
May  thy  star  be  won  in  the  glorious  skies, 
Soldier-brother  so  gallant  and  true ! 

Though  each  falling  leaf  will  recall  to  my  sight 

Thy  fate  in  these  horrible  wars, 
I'll  dry  my  eyes  when  each  darksome  night 

Becomes  lighted  with  glittering  stars. 

In  the  land  of  the  blest,  where  all  spirits  are  free 
From  distinction  of  gray  or  of  blue, 

Christ  grant  we  may  meet  at  the  great  reveillee, 
Soldier-brother  so  gallant  and  true ! 

3  25 


26  MAJOR    CHARLIE. 

It  may  not  be  mine  to  lay  wreaths  on  thy  hearse, 
As  thou  goest  embalmed  in  thy  fame. 

Let  me  gather  at  least  my  poor  chaplet  of  verse 
And  consecrate  it  to  thy  name. 


CHRISTMAS  POEMS. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


church-bells,  swung  in  olden  times, 
-*-    Peal  out  again  in  splendid  chimes ; 

Spreading,  like  surges,  sound  on  sound, 

» 
Till  every  hamlet  steeple  round 

Acknowledges  the  call. 
With  midnight  mass  cathedrals  glow  ; 
The  stars  salute  the  earth  below  ; 
On  distant  moor, 
The  maiden  poor 
Hangs  holly  on  the  wall. 

'Tis  Christmas  Eve!      Who  could  be  sad? 
All  earth,  at  such  a  time,  is  glad ! 
Where  is  the  heart,  cuirassed  in  steel, 
On  Christmas  Eve  that  cannot  feel 

3*  29 


30  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

Some  nobler  pulse  within  ? 
If  piercing  blow  the  winter  wind, 
Let  it  but  waft  our  guilt  behind; 
We  feel  more  clear 
From  care  and  fear, 
And  further  from  each  sin. 

Cousin !    I  frankly  say  to  you 
There  is  one  thing  I  cannot  do : 
I  cannot  thank,  as  it  deserves, 
Kindness  like  yours,  that  never  swerves, 

Although  abused  and  tried. 
But  I,  at  least,  can  wish  you  here 
Many  and  many  and  many  a  year 
Of  every  joy, 
Without  alloy, 

And  "Merry  Christmas-tide." 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


TO-NIGHT,  above  the  silent  rill, 
And  frosty  trees,  and  distant  hill, 
There  glimmers  in  the  sky  a  star 
That  shone,  oh,  long  ago !    afar, 
And  taught  some  shepherds  where  to  seek, 
The  while  they  heard  the  angels  speak 
Celestial  words  that  echo  still : — 
"Peace  upon  earth;   to  men  good  will." 

What  though  the  woods,  invoked  to  share 
Our  joy,  no  richer  tribute  bear 
Than  holly-leaves  and  evergreen  ? 
Our  hearts  have  nobler  gifts,  I  ween. 
For  mortals  now  returning  see 
The  Eve  of  Christ's  Nativity. 


32  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

Though  voiceless  be  the  ice-bound  rill, 

The  waves  of  thought  have  music  still. 

Oh  that  my  tiny  pebble,  thrown 

Into  the  stream  of  Song  alone, 

May  make  the  widening  circles  glance 

Till  at  thy  feet  the  wavelets  dance ! 

Let  every  undulation  be 

A  Christmas  carol  sung  to  thee. 

What  though  the  trees  with  branches  bare 
Trellis  the  frosty  Christmas  air  ? 
Still  Recollection  flaunts  on  high 
Her  gorgeous  banner  'gainst  the  sky ; 
And  still,  above  the  gathering  storm, 
Affection's  heart  throbs  loud  and  warm. 
Dear  cousin  !     Once  again,  receive 
My  thanks  and  love,  on  Christmas  Eve. 


GASPS    the    dying    poet :     "  Give    me    a    great 
thought, 

To  cheer  me  ere  my  drooping  spirit  part." 
Cries  the  pallid  lover :    "  Give  me  a  great  hope, 

To  fill  the  gloomy  void  within  my  heart." 
Sobs  the  blushing  maiden:    "Give  me  a  great  love, 

Such  as  the  angels  waft  from  heaven  to  earth." 
Pants  the  falling  soldier :    "  Give  me  a  great  fame, 

To  blaze  the  story  of  my  martial  worth." 
Ye  human  aspirations,  soaring  high ! 
How  many  of  you  but  shall  fall  and  die 
Like  shaft-struck  eagles?     Therefore  let  my  task, 
If  pleasure  can  be  task,  0  lady,  be  to  ask 
Something  that  may  be  granted.     For  I  know  your 

heart 
Pours  out  a  stream  of  bounty  unto   all.      Now,  do 

not  start. 
I  crave  this  Christmas  Eve  a  gift.     Oh,  may  there  be 

A  little  place  kept  in  your  heart  for  even  me ! 
c  33 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DRUM. 


I  HAVE  read  an  odd  legend  of  other  climes, 
How  invisible  bells  ring  the  Christmas  chimes, 
How  a  ghostly  bugle  at  midnight  calls 
Through  the  tapestried  reaches  of  echoing  halls, 
And  phantom  armies  at  midnight  come 
Prompt  at  the  tap  of  a  phantom  drum. 

If  this  mute  little  drum  had  but  power  to  resound, 
And  give  form  to  the  wishes  now  thronging  around, 
An  army  of  blessings  should  spring  into  ranks, 
Whole  legions  of  love,  and  a  squadron  of  thanks, 
While  aloft  in  the  banner  this  motto  should  shine : — 
"Merry  Christmas,  fair  Lady,  to  thee  and  to  thine." 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OHILLON. 


A  DOWN  a  dismal  winding  stair, 
That  led  to  depths  below, 
A  lady,  blooming,  young,  and  fair, 
From  distant  lands  a  pilgrim  there, 
With  pensive  brow  and  stately  air, 
Swept  mournfully  and  slow. 

No  sunbeam  on  that  castle  wall 
Was  brighter  than  her  smile ; 
She  lighted  up  the  echoing  hall, 
That  scarce  repeated  her  footfall, 
And  Chillon's  far-famed  castle  tall 
Might  well  be  glad  the  while. 


36  THE   FLOWER   OF   CHILLON. 

0  mighty  Chillon,  in  thy  pride 
Bedecked  with  legends  gray ! 

0  lovely  Leman,  by  whose  side 
The  castle  rises  like  a  bride, 
Mirror-reflected  in  thy  tide  ! — 

I  envy  thee  that  day ! 

1  envy  thee  the  mem'ries  hoar 
That  cling  around  each  stone ; 

And  when  the  hand  shall  be  no  more 
That  pens  these  lines,  there  still  shall  pour 
A  stream  of  pilgrims  through  thy  door, 
To  worship  at  thy  throne. 

Thy  fame  is  deathless,  castle  gray  ! 

Embalmed  by  Albion's  bard, — 
For  sure  immortal  is  his  lay : 
Can  Byron's  verses  e'er  decay  ? 
Or  can  those  fetters  rust  away 

That  clanked  on  Bonnivard? 

No !    deathless  are  those  notes  of  wrong, 
Struck  by  the  master  hand: 


THE   FLOWER   OF   CHILLON.  37 

And  while  we  listen  to  his  song, 
Forms  that  from  buried  ages  throng, 
Roused  by  his  incantation  strong, 
Living  before  us  stand. 

Onward  the  graceful  lady  swept, 
Filled  with  these  thoughts  sublime : 

Through  frowning  arch,  and  sullen  crypt, 

By  "loophole  barred,  where  captives  wept," 

And  men  at  arms  stern  vigil  kept, 
Back  in  the  far  old  time. 

But  who  can  measure  woman's  heart, 

Or  gauge  its  wondrous  power  ? 
Through  her  sweet  spirit  came  a  dart 
Of  vivid  memory.      Far  apart 
From  her,  and  all  these  stores  of  art, 

She  thought  of  one  that  hour, 

And  gathered  from  the  pavement  old 

A  flower.      Strange  sight  to  see ! 
It  grew  from  out  a  crevice  cold, 
As  shivering  lamb  on  wintry  wold, 


38  THE    FLOWER   OF   CHILLON. 

Shut  out  perchance  from  dam  and  fold, 
Stands  bleating  piteously. 

The  sun  that  rises  on  Chillon 

Rolls  westward  for  to  set. 
That  treasured  flower  now  gladdens  one 
Immured  within  a  fortress  lone, 
Within  whose  frowning  tiers  of   stone 

Its  fragrance  lingers  yet. 

And  oft,  when  midnight  surges  swell, 

Or  midnight  cannon  booms, 
The  prisoner,  waking  in  his  cell, 
Smiles  as  he  frames  fit  words  to  tell 
How  still,  renewed  by  fairy  spell, 
The  Flower  of  Chillon  blooms. 


VALENTINE. 


WHEN  Summer  decks  the  woods  with  green 
And  sets  the  fields  a  smiling, 
My  Mary  cheers  the  glowing  scene, 

Unhappiness  beguiling. 
When  boist'rous  Winter  plays  his  part, 

Still  comes  my  precious  fairy 
And  kindles  summer  in  my  heart, — 
My  darling  little  Mary  ! 

Oh  that  I  had  the  magic  power 

To  warble  like  a  poet! 
I  could  not  love  my  Mary  more, 

But  I  could  better  show  it : 

39 


40  VALENTINE. 

I'd  soar  exultant  all  day  long, 
Like  eagle  from  her  eyrie, 

At  night  I'd  bring  my  sweetest  song 
And  sing  it  to  my  Mary. 

I'd  pluck  the  gleaming  fruit  that  hung 

All  in  Hesperian  gardens, 
And  fairest  flowers  that  odors  flung, 

In  spite  of  dragon  wardens; 
And  many  a  tale  grotesque  I'd  tell, 

Of  gnome,  or  elf,  or  peri, — 
A  tribute  to  my  little  belle, 

A  Valentine  for  Mary. 


SONNETS. 


SONNET. 


TP1IS  pleasant  sometimes,  down  the  oubliette 

-*-    Oblivion  kindly  opens  in  our  past, 
To  drop  our  sorrows ;    hardships  to  forget, 

And  exorcise  the  spectres  that  would  cast 
Their  blight  upon  our  future.      Turn  we  still 

From  passing  darkness  to  the  coming  day ; 

From  the  dense  murk  of  midnight,  to  the  ray 
Of  hope  that  soon  must  light  the  eastern  hill. 

But,  while  we  quaff  nepenthe  for  the  woes 
That  else,  accumulating  with  our  years, 
Had  overborne  our  manhood,  there  are  tears 

Of  joy  we  would  not  dry, — that  flow  for  those 
Whose  constant  kindness  never  ceased  to  shine, 
A  storm-wrapped  beacon ;    kindness  such  as  thine ! 


SONNET. 


M 


ADAM,  dear  madam!    Surely  I  might  claim 

Relationship  with  you,  I  call  to  mind 
Such  acts  of  kindness ;    and  one  of  your  name, 

If  little  less  than  kin,  was  more  than  kind ; 
(So  let  me  travesty  an  ancient  phrase 

To  suit  my  grateful  purpose.)      Thus  I  try 
To  thank  you,  in  these  insufficient  lays, 

For  many  an  act  of  gentlest  sympathy. 
A  year  ago  to-day,  the  gates  that  pent 

My  freedom,  held  in  ward  by  armed  men, 
Flared  open,  and  the  beck'ning  landscape  sent 

A  throb  of  gladness  through  my  pulses  then. 
But  all  my  fetters  dropped  not.  Tighter  grew 
Affection's  chain,  that  stretched  'twixt  me  and  you! 


44 


r MHE  Past  and  Present!    How  the  pictures  glow! 
-*-      Like  the  old  Danish  portraits  i'  the  play. 
But  as  stars  vanish  at  the  break  of  day, 
So  fades  the  Present  as  the  Past  gains  sway. 
A  name,  a  date,  a  face,  the  winds  that  blow 
Odors  of  well-known  flowers  from  well-known  fields, — 
Are  all  sufficient.      Then  the  Present  yields 
Her  precedence :   the  active  power  she  wields 
Drops  on  the  shoulders  of  the  rising  Past, 
Till  last  becomes  the  first,  the  first  the  last. 
To-day  comes  fraught  with  feeling;   like  a  tune 
One  learned  in  childhood,  heard  perchance  again, 
After  much  tossing  on  a  stormy  main. 
No  wonder  that  it  does  :  it  is  the  Fourth  of  June  ! 


EPIGRAM. 

THE   RELEASED  PRISONER  TO   HIS   MISTRESS. 


ri  THOUGH    loosed    from    all    prison,    I    still    am 

not  free. 

Come  solve  me  this  riddle,  and  tell  me,  what  art 
Thou  hast  -used,  my  enslaver  :    I  owe  it  to  thee 
That  the  chains  from  my   hands  are  transferred 
to  my  heart ! 


46 


MY  PRISON  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


M 


Y  captive  companions  lie  sleeping  around, 

Forgetful  a  while  of  their  sorrow  and  care ; 
The  vault  of  our  dungeon  re-echoes  no  sound, 
Save  the  sentinel's  tramp  on  the  esplanade  there. 


The  night  is  resplendent  wiija  moon  and  with  stars, 
No  cloud  dims  their  lustre,  no  tempest  is  near ; 

As  I  creep  to  the  casemate  and  gaze  through  the  bars 
In  wonder  to  witness  such  loveliness  here. 

The  moon  like  a  herald  emblazons  the  sea, 

Bend  argent  traversing  a  'scutcheon  of  blue  ; 
And  I  know  the  same  light  that  is  shining  on  me 

Falls  soft  on  the  tower  of  fair  Alverthorpe  too. 

47 


48  MY   PRISON   BY    MOONLIGHT. 

The  star-girdled  empress,  enthroned  in  the  air, 
Touches  fortress  and  tower  with  her  bright-flashing 

blade, 
And  the  earth  seems  to  rise  from  the  contact   more 

fair, 
Like  a  warrior  touched  by  a  queen's  accolade. 

Such  glory  without,  and  such  darkness  within, 
What  wonder  the  prisoner's  heart  turns  away 

From  the  sorrow  that  is,  to  the  joy  that  has  been, 
And  still  tinges  with  silver  the  cloud  of  to-day? 

Though  the  bright  sun  of  happiness  hasten  to  set, 
— .As   a   three-decker   founders   with    banner    and 

mast, —  . 

The  moonlight  of  memory  lingers  here  yet, 

Blending   hope   for  the  future   with   love   for  the 
past; 

Giving  promise  that  morning  will  come  once  again, 
Bursting  open  the  ponderous  portals  of  night, 

And  reminding  the  captive  that,  loosed  from  his  chain, 
He  may  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  freedom  and  light. 


MY    PRISON    BY    MOONLIGHT.  49 

That  fair  faces  will  greet  his  return  with  a  smile, 
As  he  halts  for  repose  on  his  wearisome  track ; 

And  kind  voices  will  mingle  in  chorus  the  while, 
To  welcome  the  prison-worn  wanderer  back. 


AN   AEOLIAN  SERENADE. 


OH,  whence    comes    that   music    that,  stealing  so 
gently, 

Brings  echoes  of  melodies  long  past  away, 

Like  a  choir  chanting  orisons  grandiloquently, 

Or  vesper-nuns  sighing  for  moribund  day  ? 

Now  low  breathe  the  accents,  as  if  pleasure-laden 
From  gardens  where   young   Love  lies  cradled  in 
flowers, 

Now  high  and  prolonged,  like  the  wail  of  a  maiden 
Whose  lover  is  dead  in  her  desolate  bowers. 

A  guitar  at  a  scarce-opened  window  is  lying, 
And  the  cool  breeze  of  evening  my  serenade  sings, 

50 


AN    AEOLIAN   SERENADE.  51 

Weird  seolian  echoes  through  dream-land  are  flying, 
As  the  wing  of  the  air-spirit  brushes  the  strings. 

Sure  nowhere  but  in  mediaeval  romance  ye 
Could  hope  such  fantastic  conception  to  find ; 

Some  wandering  ghost  of  a  troubadour's  fancy 
This  phantom-like  roundelay  taught  to  the  wind. 

Perchance  cavaliers  as  a  madrigal  rang  it 

Through  balconied  streets  by  the  light  of  the  stars, 

Till  palace-shrined  beauty  awoke,  as  they  sang  it 
To  felicitous  cadences  on  their  guitars. 

Knights,  ladies,   and    troubadours    sleep    their    last 
slumbers, 

For  all  souvenir  leaving  this  quaint  melody  ; 
Yet  my  fancy  delights  to  imagine  the  numbers 

They  loved,  to  be  those  the  wind  whispers  to  me. 


THE  RETARDED   VERSES. 


A  PAIR  of  glittering  slippers  from  the  East, 
From   Nilus'   bank, — where    once   the    swarthy 

belle, 

Whose  beauty  made  the  Roman  laurel  bow 
And  do  her  homage,  lived, — I  bring  to  thee; 
Not  all  uncertain — like  that  doubtful  prince 
Who  followed  Cinderella  from  the  ball — 
Whose  foot  may  fit  the  bauble.      Well  I  know 
The  graceful  instep  that  will  arch  above 
And  .decorate  each  decorated  shoe. 
Thy  beauty  needs  no  further  garniture 
To  set  it  off,  'tis  true ;   but,  then,  reflect 
That  these  poor  slippers,  though  they  flash  with  gold, 

Need  still  thy  touch  to  ornament  them  more. 
52 


THE    RETARDED    VERSES. 


53 


For  their  sake,  then,  if  not  for  mine,  accept  them. 
But  sometimes,  prythee,  in  thy  happier  mood, 
When  they  are  resting  on  thy  little  feet, 
Think  that  thou  seest  th'unworthy  donor  there. 


COMMENCEMENT. 


ONCE  a  year,  in  the  old  town  of  Cambridge, 
There's  a  day  when  the  Governor  comes, 
With  aides-de-camp,  sheriffs,  and  lancers, 
And  clangor  of  trumpets  and  drums ; 

When  the  damsel  who  dwells  in  the  city 

Comes  out  to  embellish  the  scene; 
And  the  maiden  who  lives  in  the  cottage 

Trips  college-ward  over  the  green  ; 

When  students,  from  every  direction, 

And  white-headed  men  from  afar, 
Throng  a  building  with  wide-open  portals, 

Like  the  temple  of  Janus  in  war. 

54 


COMMENCEMENT.  55 

And,  begirt  with  a  staff  of  professors. 

The  President  comes  on  that  day, 
Like  an  old  academic  field-marshal, 

To  review  the  scholastic  array. 

Alma  Mater,  majestic  and  graceful, 

Enthroned  'mid  her  colleges  gray, 
Bestows  a  last  kiss  on  her  children, 

And  sends  them  exultant  away. 

Though  they  tread  the  dim  shores  of  the  Ganges, 

Or  explore  the  mysterious  Nile; 
Though  the  forests  of  "dark-rolling  Danube" 

Their  meandering  footsteps  beguile  ; 

Though  they  fly  on  the  wings  of  the  morning 

To  the  uttermost  isle  of  the  sea ; 
Even  there  shall  they  bless  Alma  Mater, 

For  there  shall  her  influence  be. 

Ofttimes,  when  oppressed  with  affliction, 
Or  disgusted  with  pleasure  that  palls, 

They  shall  think  with  regret  on  the  tranquil  delights 
They  resigned  in  those  elm-shaded  halls. 


56  COMMENCEMENT. 

Two  lustres  have  lapsed  since  we  parted, 

Our  mother,  my  classmates,  and  I : 
Alas !     Here  I  sit  in  the  gloaming  alone, 

And  conjecture  their  fate  with  a  sigh. 

How  many,  I  wonder,  have  "dreed  their  doom"? 

How  many  may  still  be  alive? 
Waes  hael !     Here  I  pledge  ye,  old  comrades, 

Thou  class  of  the  year  Fifty-five. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


SPANISH  EPIGRAM. 


A   UNQUE  en  espejo  se  miran 
-£•*-  Las  mujeres  con  frequencia ; 
En  mismo  tiempo  nunca  ven 
Que  es  de  vidrio  su  belleza. 

Ladies  gaze  in  their  mirrors  as  oft,  I  suspect, 

As  though  they  considered  it  part  of  their  duty ; 

But  the  darlings  themselves  never  seem  to  reflect 
To  what  attribute  glass  owes  it's  exquisite  beauty. 

59  • 


THE  SONG  OP   THE  KHINE. 

^rom  %  (Herman. 


COME  fill  the  goblet!      Eound  it  ivy  twine, 
And  joyous  drain  it  here ! 
Europe's  broad  empire  boasts  no  other  wine, 
Sirs-Revellers,  its  peer ! 

Not  in  the  fields  of  laughter-loving  France, 

Poland  or  Hungary  : 
St.  Vitus  may  prefer  those  drinks,  perchance ; 

No  wine  grows  there  for  me. 

Our  native  country  yields  it  from  her  treasure : 

How  were  it  else  so  good? 
60 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   RHINE.  Gl 

Or  how  so  calm  and  noble  beyond  measure 
"With  potent  hardihood? 

Even  amid  Germania's  classic  features 

Stand  many  mountains,  still, 
Just  like  their  native  reptiles,  dirty  creatures, 

Not  worth  the  space  they  fill. 

Thuringia's  mountains,  for  example,  offer 

A  sort  of  stuff  folks  brew ; 
But  that's  not  wine !      On  that  no  singing  scoffer 

Rollicks  till  all  is  blue. 

You'll  search  the  ore-producing  mountains  vainly, 

If  wine  you  would  behold : 
Cobalt  and  silver  are  their  products  mainly, 

Mixed  with  some  spurious  gold. 

The  Blocksberg's  but  a  long-legged  cit,  with  speeches 

Inflated  and  bombastic : 
There  Satan  and  his  kindred  crew  of  witches 

Cut  up  their  shines  fantastic. 


62  THE   SONG   OF   THE   RHINE. 

But   on    the    Rhine !      The    Rhine !      Our    vineyards 
cluster. 

All  hail,  transcendent  Rhine  ! 
Look,  to  the  brink  the  leafy  squadrons  muster, 

And  reel  with  glorious  wiiie. 

Then  drain  the  beaker !     Fill  and  drink  again, 

Flushed  with  melodious  glee ! 
We'll  rouse  the  sick  man  from  his  couch  of  pain, 

To  join  our  revelry. 


LOKELEI. 

Jrom  %  (ierman. 


T  CANNOT  tell  what  it  presages 
J-       That  I  so  sad  should  be ; 

But  a  legend  of  distant  ages 

• 

Still  haunts  my  memory. 
Cool  breezes  herald  the  coming  night, 

The  tranquil  Rhine  flows  by, 
The  sparkling  mountain-crest  glows  bright 

Where  evening  sunbeams  die. 

Enthroned  in  surpassing  loveliness, 

A  maiden  is  sitting  there ; 
Golden  ornaments  flash  in  her  dress, 

She  is  combing  her  golden  hair, — 

63 


64  LORELEI. 

Combing  her  hair  with  a  comb  of  gold, 
And  singing  a  song,  the  while, 

Whose  mystic  melody  wondrous  and  bold 
Can  mortal  heart  beguile. 

The  sailor  is  thrilled  by  her  magical  notes, 
-    And  gazes  bewildered  on  high, 
Unheeding  his  shallop,  that  rapidly  floats 

On  the  sunken  rocks  near  by. 
Sailor  and  shallop  must  perish  amain 

Where  the  breakers  are  surging  nigh ; 
For  death  and  destruction  lurk  in  the  strain 

That  is  caroled  by  Lorelei. 


ITALY. 

Jtom  %  <&erman  of 


K 


NOWST  thou  the  land  where  the  citron-trees 


grow, 

In  whose  dark  leafy  groves  golden  oranges  glow  ? 
Where  a  soft  air  from  heaven  sweeps  over  the  seas, 
And  the  laurel  and  myrtle  are  fanned  by  the  breeze? 
Know'st  thou  it  well?     Tis  there,  oh!  there, 
That  with  thee,  my  darling,  I  fain  would  repair ! 

Know'st  thou  the  palace  with  colonnade  tall? 

The  rich  trappings  gleam  through  the  glittering  hall ; 

There  statues  of  marble  look  kindly  on  me, 

As   if  asking,    "  Poor   child,  what   has   happened  to 

thee?" 

65 


66  ITALY. 

Know'st  thou  it  well?     Tis  there,  oh!  there, 
That   with    thee,   heart's   treasure,  my   lot    I   would 
share ! 

Know'st  thou  the  cloud-crested  mountain  so  gray, 
Where  the  sure-footed  mule  through  the  mist  gropes 

its  way  ? 

The  brood  of  the  dragon  lies  hid  in  its  caves, 
»  And  down  the  rent  rock  the  wild  cataract  raves. 
Know'st  thou  it  Well?      Thereby,  thereby, 
Our  road  leads,  0  father:  away  let  us  hie! 


THE   POWER  OF   SONG-. 
<$r0m  %  (Human. 


TN  those  blest   realms  where  Song  her  power   re- 
-L       veals, — 

It  matters  not  for  creed, — there  fearless  dwell : 
Where  song  prevails,  no  lurking  robber  steals, 

For  bad  men's  bosoms  with  no  music  swell. 

Each  mother  consecrates  with  music  mild 
To  happy  life  her  darling's  earliest  hours ; 

Through  groves  in  May  she  leads  the  smiling  child, 
And  cradles  him  to  sleep  with  songs  of  flowers. 

In  song  the  young  man's  passion  bursts  its  bonds, 

And  carols  his  unspeakable  delight : 

6*  67 


68  THE    POWER    OF    SONG. 

How  quick  the  loved  one's  conscious  heart  responds ! — 
Music  reveals  what  poet  cannot  write. 

Old  men  sit  at  their  doors  with  hoary  head, 

And  chant  the  wise  men's  songs  in  joyous  tones; 

No  despot's  minion  fills  their  soul  with  dread, 
For  song  makes  tyrants  tremble  on  their  thrones. 

When  round  the  grape-blood-brimming  beaker  flies, 
Shortening  the  hours  amid  the  roses  there, 

If  wisdom  comes  and  tinctures  all  our  joys, 

Then  song  completes  a  banquet  gods  might  share. 

The  stripling  leaves  the  master's  hand  and  rings 
Loud  song  when  rushing  into  spring-time  fair ; 

While  at  the  meadow-side  the  sister  sings, 
Twining  a  wreath  to  deck  her  charmer's  hair. 

Men  hang  on  beauty's  smile-light  sweet,  and  need 
No  other  charms  to  keep  them  at  her  feet; 

But  should  the  siren's  soul-felt  strain  succeed, 
Oh,  then  indeed  th'enchantment  is  complete. 


THE   POWER   OF   SONG.  69 

With  war-song  fierce  the  hero  grasps  the  brand 
When  freedom's  clarion  high  resounds  for  right; 

Fenced  in  the  steel-proof  mail  of  duty's  band, 
He  dares  to  death  the  iron-hurtling  fight. 

Sweet    Song !     Thy    soft,   soul-guiding    power    soon 
brings 

To  end  each  evil  that  to  toil  belongs; 
Under  thy  influence  virtue's  germ  upsprings : — 

Oh,  wretched,  wretched  land  that  has  no  songs! 


THE  END. 


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